


Words of Smoke, Hands of Fire

by Margo_Kim



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Female Friendship, Fluff, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/pseuds/Margo_Kim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Lyanna marries Rhaegar and the Targaryens remain on the Iron Throne, Sansa is delighted to have Daenerys visit. But when Dany arrives, Sansa finds that her childhood friend is a bit older and very different than Sansa remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words of Smoke, Hands of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the prompt "finger kiss"[ on my tumblr.](http://margotkim.tumblr.com/post/47759696510/written-for-ironandsonic-who-requested)

Sansa was raised to mind lineage and kinship, but even she often forgot that Daenerys was her aunt by marriage. With only three years between them and no shared blood, the relation was easy to forget. Perhaps they were more like sisters, but Sansa already had a sister, as much as she sometimes wished she didn’t, and the difference between her relationship with Dany and her relationship with Arya was night and day. What Sansa felt for Arya was as study as the walls of Winterfell, as unshakeable as it could be begrudging. Sansa had no choice about loving Arya; she simply did and could never stop.

Then if family love was the thick wool cloak that kept you alive when winter came to bite, what Sansa’s felt for Dany was the shimmering silk gown underneath— foreign, fragile, frivolous, and loved because it was those things. Life in the North did not have many inessential things or beautiful ornaments that made the heart glad. Dany was neither a thing nor an ornament, but she was beautiful, and she was inessential. There was no utility in loving her, and that made Dany precious.

Not kin but friends, Sansa decided. At thirteen, she was still allowed, if only for a little while longer, the easy friendships of childhood possible only before you become a player in the game. At sixteen and favorite sister of the king, Dany should have been playing herself, but everyone knew who she was and what she was like, and so she was exempted as much as a princess could be. No doubt she would marry a lord soon—the Rebellion was not so long ago that the King could squander the alliance his youngest sister could bring—but there were no whispers of engagement yet. The king would keep Dany close to him as long as possible. Sansa often wondered if Dany minded, but she never asked. It seemed wrong to prod a hurt like that just to see if it did indeed hurt. Dany herself never brought it up. She never spoke about court at all. She’d always preferred stories and songs and histories of the past to the dealings of the present, a preference Sansa shared though she favored tales of princess over the tales of the dragons that ate them. Sansa and Dany had learned from a young age to split the difference and spent more afternoons that Sansa could count playing games of the Princess and the Dragon where the prince never did turn up to save anyone.

When Sansa visited Queen Lyanna at King’s Landing, she slept in Dany’s bed, learned from Dany’s teachers, dressed in Dany’s dresses, and lived at Dany’s side, tucked under Dany’s wing. When Lady Catelyn told Sansa that King Rhaeger had personally written to ask if his little sister might spend this half-year at Winterfell, Sansa was overjoyed at the chance to return the favor.

“She’s never been up North,” Sansa said excitedly as her mother combed out her long red hair. “Can you imagine? She’s never even _seen_ snow. Last time I went South, she asked me if it tasted like sugar.”

Catelyn shook her head as she started to plait Sansa’s hair, her mind already overfull with the logistics of making Winterfell ready for a royal, even the meanest of them, and so she was not thinking when she said, “You just be sure to keep her in your good graces. You never know.”

“You never know what?” Sansa asked.

But Catelyn wouldn’t answer that. “Just be on your best behavior,” she said pointedly.

“Of course I will,” Sansa replied. “I’m not Arya.”

The remark earned Sansa a sharp tug on her braids as her mother finished them up.

 _Just in case_ , Sansa thought as she scampered away. That was what everyone always said about the Targaryens. Just in case. Good to be on the safe side. That was the gamble of the bloodline, wasn’t it? When a Targaryen was born, the gods flipped a coin. That was what her father had told her once, when she had asked why people spoke of the royal family—her family—in such careful tones. Madness or greatness, he told her then, in the grave voice he used when he wanted you to know that this lesson mattered. Those were the only options, and lords of the realms must always be vigilant which way the coin fell.

Her father didn’t tell her how wrong the last king went, how close Westeros came to bloody war. Robb told her that, describing the Mad King’s cruelty with the loving detail only an older brother could manage. He apologized later when Sansa’s nightmares wouldn’t stop, went as far as to spend one night sitting at the side of her bed so she’d know the Mad King’s army couldn’t come in and slaughter her in her sleep, but Sansa was grateful for his honesty eventually. Her world made more sense after she knew. She understood why her father watched his brother-in-law so very carefully. She understood why some men spoke of the traitors of the failed Rebellion so fondly. She especially understood now why the Lannisters’ honor and wealth had been spared while the head of the Kingslayer decomposed on the wall of the Red Keep. The newly orphaned Rhaegar was very keen to show that it was unacceptable to hold an entire family responsible for the actions of one member. 

King Rhaegar’s coin had landed on the side of greatness, and Westeros had heaved a heavy sigh of relief. His younger brother had come out mad, and Westeros had quietly forgotten him. And Daenerys? Strange, quiet, unearthly little Princess Daenerys? The coin was still in the air.

A month after King Rhaegar’s letter, the royal progression arrived. Dany rode near the front on a pure white horse the color of her hair. It was a beast of a horse, a stallion better suited to a full grown knight. Dany rode it as easily as if it were a pony, with a swinging grace in her that Sansa had not seen before. She looked older too—she was older, of course, it had been a year since Sansa had seen her last, but now she looked like a woman, almost. She looked like a lady, and suddenly Sansa felt very, very young.

The entire Stark family gathered to greet Dany at the inner courtyard of Winterfell. Sansa stood up as tall as she could and bit her lips to make them look fuller. “Are you trying to eat yourself?” Arya asked.

“Don’t be such a child, Arya,” Sansa said, but she stopped biting.

Dany dismounted, and the Starks bowed and curtsied. Sansa was still taller than her. She didn’t know why that made her feel relieved. Dany bowed her head solemnly back. “Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Lord Eddard said. “We’re honored to have you.”

“I’m honored to be here, Lord Stark,” Dany said, looking him square in the eye. Her voice was louder, fuller, deeper. “Lyanna has told me so much about her home that I thought it was time I saw it for myself. So far the North has lived up to everything she told me.”

“Then I hope she has only told you good things,” Catelyn said.

Dany smiled, and it looked real, not the rigor mortis grin she used to adopt in public when someone would command a smile. _How regal she looks_ , Sansa thought and chewed her lip again without thinking.

The rest of the day was a flurry of activity as Dany and her followers moved into Winterfell. Despite Sansa’s pleas, Catelyn had not moved the young princess into Sansa’s room or even adjacent to Sansa’s room but into the proper guest quarters on the other end of Winterfell. Sansa felt grateful for that now. She didn’t know the woman who had arrived at Winterfell in Dany’s place. She wasn’t sure if she liked her yet.

Throughout the greetings and the tour and the move in and the feast Sansa stayed back. She watched Dany laugh and chat and listen, her face by turns animated and still, her body language inviting and imperial. Just last year, Dany had spent her time in court with her head bowed, her white hair closing her off like a curtain while people talked around her. Some nights she would speak only to Sansa. Now she spoke to everyone but.

Daenerys glanced away from Robb and caught Sansa’s eye. Sansa pinkened, feeling irrationally like she had been caught at something. She looked away. She looked back. Daenerys’s eyes were back on Robb.

Catelyn grabbed her arm as Sansa got up from the table. “Where are you going?”

“I need some air, Mother,” Sansa muttered.

Catelyn studied her daughter’s face. “Are you alright?”

“I need some air.”

Catelyn let Sansa go and watched her leave the hall. _First Robb, now Sansa_ , Catelyn thought to herself and sighed as she poured herself another glass of wine. _The gods help us once Arya starts becoming a woman._

The posted guards murmured quiet greetings as Sansa walked along the castle walls. It was cold tonight, colder than normal. She leaned against the stone and looked out over the walls of Winterfell. It had been colder than normal for the last two weeks. The maesters fretted that this was the end of the long summer. Sansa wasn’t afraid. She was a Stark; she was built for winter.

“You look very fierce like that.”

Sansa turned around and Dany was there, wrapped in a thick black cloak that looked like she had borrowed it from a guard. The massive fur dwarfed her, and Sansa couldn’t help smiling. “Fierce?” she asked, straightening up.

Dany opened her mouth and huffed one short burst of air. In the cold, it curled like smoke. “Like a dragon’s flame,” she said before she corrected herself. “I imagine.”

“I don’t think they looked like me,” Sansa said. “You’re a Targaryen. You’ve a better claim to that.”

Dany laughed quietly like she was remembering a joke that Sansa didn’t know. “You’re not wrong.” She wavered for a moment, then walked forward and stood at Sansa side, close enough for their arms to bump. They looked out over the sleeping countryside together. “You’ve been quiet this evening,” Dany said.

Sansa was glad they weren’t looking at each other. “Have I been?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“You didn’t speak to me at all.”

“You were speaking to other people.”

“I would have been speaking with you if you’d spoken with me.”

“We’re speaking now, aren’t we?”

“Because I ambushed you.”

“Because there are no other people here you’re talking too.” Sansa raised her chin. “It’s not my place to interrupt royal conversations.”

“They weren’t royal conversations. They were just conversations.”

“Are you royal?” Sansa asked. Dany gave her a look. “Then they were royal conversations.”

“Then this must be a childish conversation,” Dany said, “because you are such a child.”

Sansa squawked and Dany sniffed and they both laughed at the same time. “So you’re as mean and charmless as ever,” Sansa said.

Dany bumped her shoulder against Sansa’s arm. “Only with you.”

Sansa nodded, conceding the point. She couldn’t deny that half her father’s hall seemed in love with Dany and the other half just hadn’t had the chance to speak to her yet.

“You’ve changed plenty yourself,” Dany said lightly. “At least vertically. I thought ladies were supposed to look up at lords through their fluttering eyelashes, not peer down at them over the top of their nose.”

“Then it’s good for you that you’re short as ever.”

Dany bumped against her again and stayed there, her head resting on Sansa’s shoulder. “I’m not a lord. And I couldn’t do this if I was taller.”

Sansa swallowed and leaned her cheek on Dany’s head. “No, I suppose not.”

They stood in silence a moment, enjoying each other’s heat. Sansa could feel Dany shivering a little. “I missed you,” Dany said, her words curling out of her mouth like smoke.

“I missed you too,” Sansa said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Sansa couldn’t see Dany’s face, but she could hear her smile. “Me too. I—” She paused. “I am frozen right now,” she said lightly. “Look.” Dany held up her hands, her fingers curled and pink with the cold. Sansa reached out and cupped them in hers. They felt like ice.

“Southern softie,” Sansa teased as she tried to rub life back into them. “I thought the Targaryens were supposed to be tough with that all dragon’s blood in you.”

“The expression is _fire_ cannot kill a dragon,” Dany replied. “This is the opposite of fire.” 

But her voice sounded strange, and it made Sansa look up from her work at Dany’s cold, cold hands. She twisted to face Dany, and Dany looked up at her through her long black lashes. She smiled that mysterious smile that she saved just for Sansa. Sansa bit her lip.

“You’ve got a secret,” Sansa said. “I can hear it.”

Dany hands tightened on Sansa’s, and now she wasn’t smiling anymore. “Can you keep it?”

 _I can’t promise that before I know how exciting it is,_ Sansa almost teased, but Dany’s face was set and serious now. It looked the same as it did when Dany was seven and she’d taken Sansa’s tiny hand and told her that she’d show her all the secret dragon bones if Sansa wanted but only if she didn’t tell anybody and if she promised to be Dany’s friend. Sansa said now what she said then. “Yes. Of course.”

Dany closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them and pulled one of her hands out of Sansa’s. “Is anyone looking?” Sansa looked around and shook her head. “You need to be quiet,” Dany said. “Promise you’ll be quiet.”

 “I’ll be quiet.” Dany stared her down. “I promise, I promise! Come on, Dany, you’re shaking. We need to get you back to the fire.”

Dany looked up at the torch stuck in the wall near them. “We’ve got fire here,” she said and stuck her hand into the flame. Sansa opened her mouth to scream, and Dany clasped her other hand over Sansa’s mouth. Sansa yanked it away and grabbed Dany’s other arm, trying to pull her out of the fire. Dany’s free hand rest on Sansa’s frantic ones and held them tight. “Sansa! Sansa, calm down!” Dany hissed.

The coin came up madness. There was no other explanation.

“Sansa! Look!” And Dany at last let go of the fire. She held up what was left of her hand. Her hand. Her hand.

“Your hand,” Sansa said numbly. “It’s—it’s—”

“Fine.” Dany wiggled her fine fingers. “Unharmed.” She cupped Sansa’s face, and it was just skin on skin, there was nothing else, nothing strange, nothing strange except the fact that Dany shouldn’t have skin at all, and it should feel soft and warm against her cheek, and her thumb shouldn’t be pressed against the corner of Sansa’s lips because it should be gone, all of it, gone. Sansa reached up and laid her hand on top of Dany’s, just to confirm that it was smooth and soft and whole on both sides. It was. Without thinking, drunk with relief, Sansa grabbed Dany’s hand by the wrist and brought it to her mouth. She pressed her lips against Dany’s fingers. They smelled like smoke, and she kissed each one and the back of Dany’s hand and each of the lines of the palm. She pressed Dany’s knuckles to her lips and closed her eyes as she whispered prayers.

When Sansa opened her eyes, she met Dany’s. The woman was framed by the orange glow of the fire, its smoke rising behind her, and for a moment Sansa swore it curled round her head like a crown. Sansa’s knees ached with the urge of curtsy. Then the wind blew, and the crown was gone, and Dany was Dany again, whome Sansa had known all her life.  “How?” Sansa breathed. Her mouth was still pressed against Dany’s hand. Her lips caught briefly on the bump of Dany’s ring finger knuckle, and Dany’s hand tightened. 

“I told you,” Dany said. “Fire cannot kill a dragon.”

“I thought you’d gone mad.” Sansa couldn’t stop herself from saying it, and Dany winced at the words. “And they’d—” She caught herself.

“Take me away?” Dany asked. _Like my brother_ went unsaid.

“I wouldn’t let them,” Sansa said. An empty promise. It didn’t feel empty. She was still holding Dany’s hands. She didn’t let go. Dany did, and Sansa’s hands suddenly felt very cold. But then Dany was coming closer, pressing against her, reaching her arms underneath Sansa’s cloak and hugging her tight. The older girl was just short enough for Sansa to tuck her under her chin.

 _Things will be different now_ , Sansa thought with a certainty she could not explain but was as strong as the winter winds now blowing south. She did not know why Dany could do this. She did not know what it meant. But she felt, almost as if she had stepped outside herself and could see for a moment everything that had come and would, that this moment was a line by which she would measure the events of her—Before and After. Sansa had been smart while they embraced. By the time the hug was over and Dany stepped back smiling, Sansa had already dismissed this thought as baseless fancy. They joked and laughed like nothing remarkable had happened at all. Sansa kept her arm around Dany as they walked back to the hall, and Dany kept her arm around Sansa’s waist. Sansa felt older than she had that morning. Something more vague and wispy than fear curled in their wake, but Dany’s arm was as warm as the hallways of her father’s castle, and Sansa knew that, if only for a little while longer, that tomorrow’s problems still belonged to tomorrow. Tonight was tonight, and it was summer still for as long as the summer would last.


End file.
